


Through the Valley

by connanro (noseybookworm)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexuality, Aspec Martin Blackwood Week, Canon Asexual Character, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Autistic Character, Late Night Conversations, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 01, Tea, ace-spectrum Martin, asexual author, implied ADHD character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:07:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23766640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noseybookworm/pseuds/connanro
Summary: What a pair, Martin thinks, the two of them make. Insomnia and nightmares driving them to awkwardly stand together  and drink tea in a crummy breakroom at an obscene hour in the morning.Or: Martin learns about asexuality at three in the morning and is able to breathe a little easier.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 34
Kudos: 355
Collections: Aspec Martin Blackwood Week





	Through the Valley

**Author's Note:**

> what is UP here's my slightly-late entry for the second day of Aspec Martin Blackwood Week! the prompts i used are 'tea' and 'common experiences'. shout-out to my little sister for helping me when i got stuck, like, multiple times.
> 
> anyway martin is autistic and jon is adhd because i am and i said so. this work has been created and """proof-read""" by an asexual person (me) and the depictions of trauma and aphobia are based off of my own personal experiences and those of some folks i know. content warnings are in the end notes; please be safe!
> 
> addendum: i am a dirty american and i did my best but if there are any blatant americanisms feel free to point them out to me!

Martin scarcely manages to stay asleep for a couple hours before the nightmares start and he forces himself to wake up, gasping silently at the cool air of the storage room, his blood pounding hot and loud in his ears, writhing silver flashing before his eyes and the taste of rot in his mouth.

He’s not going to be able to go back to sleep. _Obviously_ he’s not. It’s been over a month since he escaped the prison his flat had become, and his nightmares have been regular as clockwork ever since. It’s frustrating. Chrissake, he survived. He made it out. It’s not that he doesn’t _know_ what trauma is; the unit he’d done on psychology in third form is one of the few subjects he’d really done well in. But he can’t fight the niggling feeling that he ought to be over it by now, that he should be able to snap right back the way he always does. Not spend hours every day checking for worms, washing his hands over and over again until the skin is raw and red, not comb over his body and hair before he sleeps and after he wakes up to make sure his skin is whole and clear. Not catch his breath when he sees silver out of the corner of his eye. Not flinch at the sound of knocking.

Martin shoves the too-warm blanket off, lets out a deep breath. His phone tells him it’s half two in the morning, and the torch application shows a bed is free of worms, his skin unmarked except by his numerous freckles. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. His hands are shaking slightly, and his t-shirt sticks to his clammy skin. He thinks about just lying in bed for a moment, but the panic of the dream has made him twitchy and restless.

Tea it is then. Maybe he’ll even try doing a little work, just to pass the time. He’d normally want to write poetry, but the only lines that come from his pen recently are smooth, slivering, musky rot and crawling, crawling, his heart beating arrhythmically against the constant _knock, knock, knock—_

He stands up. The hall lights are on their dimmest setting, giving out just enough light to see by but not enough to keep the shadows from looking like they’re writhing out of the corners of his eyes. It’s fine. He’s fine. His socked feet are thankfully silent against the Institute’s tiled floors, and he makes his way to the breakroom without incident. Someone’s left the lights on. The cupboard where the teas are kept has been left open, the kettle sat on the hob, and empty mugs are in the sink. He winces a little at the state of it, and single-mindedly crosses the room to fill the kettle up and tidy things a bit.

Someone behind Martin clears their throat. Martin jumps, whirls around, kettle still in hand, heart in his throat. Jon freezes, halfway through the motion of standing up from where he was apparently sat on the floor, an empty mug in his hand, his hair ruffled, his eyes dark and intense. Martin lets out his breath shakily.

‘ _Christ_ , Jon, don’t—don’t _sneak_ up on me like that!’

Martin’s heart hammers aggressively at his chest. He unsteadily sets the kettle down by the sink and leans against the counter, trying to catch his breath. Jon makes an aborted motion towards him, guilt apparent on his tired face.

‘Sorry, I—I didn’t mean to startle you.’

Martin huffs out a laugh, lips just curling at the corners. ‘Well, you did. If you don’t want to scare the socks off people you shouldn’t sneak around in the middle of the night.’

Jon frowns at him. ‘I wasn’t—I wasn’t _sneaking_. Just. Just taking a break.’ He gestures vaguely at the mug clutched in his white-knuckled hand. His free hand is trembling slightly. Just like Martin’s own hands, grasping the counter behind him both to keep his shaky legs from collapsing and to hide just how jittery he is. It’s not that he’s ashamed of how easily startled he is. It’s just that— Well. Jon is disparaging enough of him as it is, even though he’s been less so these past weeks. Best not to give him more fuel for the fire. Martin, who doesn’t cross-reference properly. Martin, who spent two months citing things all wrong before he heard Jon complaining about it and had to figure out how to fix it by himself. Martin, who’s always clumsy, always dropping things. Martin, who was trapped in his flat by a worm lady and probably led her to the Institute. Martin, who flinches away from silver and jumps when noises startle him.

He realises that he’s not responded, and the air between them feels thick and heavy with the silence. Jon’s slid back down to the floor while Martin stood stupidly quiet, head tilted back against the wall to look up at him, hands fidgeting restlessly with the fabric of his trousers. He’s not wearing shoes, Martin notices distractedly, and his socks don’t match. He ignores the way his heart clenches at this show of vulnerability, so foreign on Jon. He looks unguarded like this, not hiding behind stiff formality and rigid propriety. Martin looks away, biting his lip, and considers whether he actually will drink tea if he makes it, then decides that the soothing effect of making the tea is worth it.

Pulling out his favoured cup (the one with a chipped rim and a fading sunflower pattern) and placing the last bag of Oolong in it doesn’t take long at all, so there’s nothing to do but fill the kettle and wait for the water to boil. The kettle hums gently on the hob as the water begins to heat. He watches it for a moment, then turns to look at Jon, who is still sitting on the floor. There’s a scattered pile of files open by his empty cup, but he’s not looking at any of them. He’s looking at Martin, a worried line between his brows. Martin feels himself flush. He knows he looks— _is_ —a mess. Hair ruffled from tossing and turning, shirt still clinging uncomfortably to his skin. Probably has eyebags to match Jon’s at this point. He wonders if Jon realises he’s staring. He clears his throat.

‘Why are you—’ His voice dies away. What is he asking? _Why are you looking at me like that. Why is it so easy to forget how harsh you are during the day when you look so gentle now. Why did you let me stay here_. He tries again. ‘Why are you still here? And awake. It’s the middle of the night.’

Jon’s frown deepens, and he mercifully looks away. Martin’s not good with eye contact at his best, and there’s something about the way Jon looks at him that makes him feel uncomfortably _seen_.

‘I…got caught up in work. And—and by the time I’d noticed it was…dark.’ His mouth pulls in a wry twist, and his fingers clench almost imperceptibly. ‘I don’t care to—to leave after dark.’ He lets out a huffs that might, under other circumstances, have been a laugh. ‘So I decided I’d just stay. See what I could get done.’ The words escape his mouth in a sigh. He looks truly exhausted. Martin’s heart clenches again. He wishes he could smooth the tired lines from Jon’s face, could run his hands soothingly through Jon’s gently curling hair, could—

The kettle, thankfully, chooses that moment to go off, letting out a shrill whistle that interrupts Martin’s dangerous line of thought and makes him jump. He turns round hastily and pours his tea. There’s water still left in the kettle, and Martin remembers Jon’s empty mug on the floor.

‘Would you like some tea?’ He tries to force some cheer into his voice. He can feel Jon’s eyes on him still, and shivers. Jon looks surprised.

‘I, uh—yes. Yes, I’d like that.’

It sounds like a confession. Martin tries not to think about that.

‘Shall I just take your cup then?’ He turns and gestures vaguely to the mug at Jon’s feet. ‘Or I can grab a clean one! It’s no trouble, either way.’ He’s going on again. God, why is it so hard to talk like a normal person?

‘Er—you can just—use this one.’ Jon climbs to his feet awkwardly, and almost gingerly hands the mug to Martin. Their fingers brush momentarily in the exchange, and Martin’s heart predictably flutters. He makes some noise of assent and hastily turns back round, busies himself making the tea. It hadn’t actually taken him too long to work out what Jon does and doesn’t like, back in Research. He would try to mask his grimaces at a breakfast blend with milk or fruit tea, but Martin hadn’t spent hours memorizing micro-expressions to miss that kind of thing. Jon doesn’t like anything with milk in it, but he does like his tea sweet. So Martin makes him a cup of vanilla rooibos, and removes his own teabag while he waits for it to steep.

Jon’s leaning against the counter beside him now, quietly watching him. Martin doesn’t know how to deal with this kind of steady attention. He catches himself wringing his hands, and hastily shoves them behind his back to still them. The clock on the wall ticks quietly. It’s almost three now.

‘What were you working on that was so riveting?’ Martin asks, trying to keep his tone light. Jon looks confused. His eyes flick from Martin’s face to the files on the floor. He wets his lips before he speaks.

‘I’m trying to hunt down more information on…Prentiss.’ His eyes meet Martin’s again, as though gaging his reaction. ‘I—I _know_ we’ve got her original statement in here somewhere, and I’m fairly certain one of the hospital staff left a statement as well but it’s just—’ He gestures frustratedly with his hands. ‘Everything’s—everything is so _chaotic_ and I can’t _find_ it.’ He bites off the words bitterly, looks up at Martin. ‘I’m the head archivist and I can’t find anything in my own archives.’ His hands are twitching, and Martin desperately wants to hold them safe and still in his own.

God, he’s really got it bad, hasn’t he.

‘You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,’ he says softly. He pulls the teabag out of Jon’s cup and stirs a spoonful of sugar into it, slowly and methodically, so as not to scrape the edges. Jon huffs at that. Martin looks up from his task to see Jon frowning, the line between his eyebrows furrowed deep like the dried-up paths of floodwaters. ‘Really,’ he says. Jon looks at him again, unconvinced. ‘You’re not doing anyone any favours like this.’ He gently presses the tea into Jon’s hands, allows his fingers to linger briefly as Jon holds it like an anchor, his elegant brown fingers wrapped securely round it. Jon looks like he wants to argue. Martin imagines reaching forward, silencing him with a finger against his lips. He doesn’t do that. ‘You can hardly work _well_ if you’re not sleeping.’

Jon huffs. ‘It’s not like I was going to be able to sleep anyway,’ he mutters.

Martin almost laughs at that. What a pair, the two of them. Insomnia and nightmares driving them to drink tea together in a crummy breakroom at an obscene hour in the morning. ‘You could at least _try_ ,’ he says after a moment. ‘There’s—y’know, there’s been studies that show that just lying down, resting, makes you feel better.’

Jon’s eyebrow slides up. ‘That’s assuming you have the patience to lie still for hours on end,’ he says wryly, and takes a sip of his tea. His face softens, and he lets out a pleased sound almost too soft to hear.

‘Fair enough, I suppose.’ Martin takes a sip of his own tea to distract himself from the curl of delight in his chest at having managed to draw something other than a scowl from Jon. The warmth in his hands and in his throat washes away some of the residual feeling of rot and slime from his dream, and he slowly exhales, releasing the tension in his shoulders.

Jon’s fingers tap slowly along the rim of his mug. He clears his throat. ‘Why are you awake?’ His voice is unsure, like he’s not certain whether he’s supposed to ask. Martin looks away, tightens his grip on the mug.

‘Oh, you know. Just nightmares,’ he says, and half-laughs. ‘Just the usual—worms and crawling and—and _knocking_.’ He can’t repress the shudder, but forces a smile on his face. ‘It’s a bit silly, really. I just couldn’t lie there in the dark without feeling them—crawling all over me.’

Jon winces. ‘Oh. I’m—I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay,’ Martin says hurriedly. ‘I just thought I’d make a cuppa, get some work done. Try to be useful.’

Jon’s expression is heavy with something Martin doesn’t understand. The air between them feels heavy again. He scrambles wildly for something that will break the tension he’s unwittingly caused. ‘Y’know,’ he says, blurting the first thing that comes to mind. ‘Always got room on my dance card for some filing!’

There’s a moment of silence. Jon looks at him blankly. ‘Is that—a joke?’

Martin frowns, focusses his gaze on the rim of his cup. Of course he’s managed to say the wrong thing again. ‘What? No, I—I just meant I have time to file. Seeing as I’m doing literally nothing else.’

‘Martin,’ Jon says slowly, setting his tea down. ‘You realise that’s a—er, a sexual euphemism?’ He says the word _sexual_ like it physically pains him. Martin stares at him, agape.

‘I—what? Sorry, _what?_ What does that even _mean?_ ’

‘It—ah, it means that you’re… Available.’

‘For what? Dating?’

‘Ah, no.’ Jon grimaces, looks away. ‘For sex.’

‘ _What?_ ’ The smirk on Tim’s face as he delivered that line to Martin a couple of days ago has gained an entirely new meaning. One that leaves him absolutely bewildered. He half wonders if he never woke up and this conversation is simply a new twist in his regular line-up of stress dreams. ‘That’s ridiculous! People don’t just—go around asking for—for _sex_ with random people in real life.’

‘I regret to inform you that they do precisely that,’ Jon says, an amused quirk to his lips.

‘You’re not having me on, are you?’ Martin asks. ‘It’s just—that’s something they just do in—in books, and television, for the ratings. Not for _real_.’ He’s not ignorant. He did overhear a lot of the boys in his year brag about their supposed many and varied sexual conquests. Frankly though, he’d just thought it was mostly air. Just a bunch of people lying to each other to make themselves look good. Just another confusing ritual _normal_ people understood and did casually that completely baffled him.

‘No, it’s very much real,’ Jon says. His gaze drifts back to Martin, the amusement shifting to something more thoughtful. His fingers are tapping on the edge of the counter now, his tea abandoned. Martin wishes he could sink into the floor and forget this conversation ever happened.

‘Martin,’ Jon starts. There’s a nervous edge to his tone. ‘Are you—are you asexual?’

‘Asexual?’ Martin parses the meaning of the word almost automatically. _A_ comes from Latin, meaning _against_ in the opposing sense. _Sexual_ is pretty obvious. ‘I—what does that mean?’ His voice comes out more plaintive than he’d like, and he fights the urge to wince.

Jon starts spinning the mug back and forth absently. ‘It basically means that you don’t want sex,’ he says. He’s got that look about him, the one he has when he’s doing something he’s properly interested in. The way he looked all those months ago when he told Martin all about emulsifiers, his hands fluttering animatedly, the rigid line of his shoulders relaxed for once. ‘There’s a variety of ways it can be described and experienced, and it’s a sort of spectrum. Or colour wheel. It can mean anything from not experiencing attraction at all and being totally sex-repulsed to only being attracted to someone you already love. That’s generally called demisexual, although it is under the asexual umbrella, so to speak. And there’s aromanticism as well—that’s not experiencing romantic attraction. They don’t necessarily come together, though.’

He cuts off a little abruptly, looks at Martin intently. Martin is struggling to process the jumble of words. Jon bites his lip, then continues. ‘I don’t particularly like labels myself, but I’m biromantic and asexual. Meaning I like multiple genders but I don’t—ah. Do the more… _physical_ parts of a romantic relationship.’ He pauses again, watching for Martin’s reaction. ‘Does that make sense?’

‘Yeah,’ Martin says, his voice almost a whisper. ‘That—that makes a lot of sense, actually.’ He feels almost light-headed. Not from fear, for once. From relief.

There’s a knot of worry and pain unwinding in his chest, born from his constant failure to meet the constant, nagging expectations of _romance_. From not liking girls the way he was supposed to, not being able to talk about which actress was hottest and which of his classmates he’d like to date. From the uncomfortable kiss with a girl when he was thirteen that convinced him he really, truly just liked boys, the awkwardness of faking some kind of attraction to girls just to pass until he dropped out before even completing sixth form. From the almost gutting relief when he’d finally moved to London where he could wear a little pride pin on his jacket and go to gay bars without the fear of it getting back to his mum. From the one short-lived relationship where he’d tried so hard to meet the expectations his boyfriend had for him, tried to make himself comfortable with the aggressive make-outs and the groping and what came after, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t _broken_ , he just hadn’t found the right person yet. From the terse arguments that culminated in Martin being dumped because he wasn’t a sexually satisfying partner. From his coworker who’d clapped him on his shoulder and said something causal about rebound sex that curdled in his chest and stank of fear and shame. From the constant confusion over why people spent so much time filming and talking and pursuing sex, when it really wasn’t that great.

He laughs, his vision blurring. ‘I’m—I’m asexual.’ His voice breaks on the word. He can’t bear to look at Jon. Jon, who just explained all this to him. Jon, who just reshaped his entire world. Jon, who is watching him, his face gentle and concerned.

Martin rubs a hand desperately over his eyes, willing himself not to cry, not to break down in front of his boss _again_ in the breakroom where they stand, their socked feet on the sticking floor a perfect metaphor for the vulnerability between them. ‘I’m not _broken_ ,’ he says, and can’t help the tear that slips down his cheek. Unguarded.

‘No, you’re not,’ Jon says gently.

‘Not wanting to have sex—is normal.’ Martin’s voice is shaking, and he almost doesn’t care.

‘If by _normal_ you mean _socially sanctioned_ , no.’ Jon says, his mouth twisting around the words. ‘Or terms of being discriminated against, no. Aphobia is—Well.’ He cuts himself off with a sigh, refocuses. The frown slips off his face as he makes careful eye contact with Martin. ‘Yes. It’s normal.’

 _You’re normal_ , he doesn’t say, but Martin hears it in his voice. His breath hitches in his chest, and another tear makes its way out of his eye. He draws in a shuddering breath, releases it slowly. Jon looks unsure, one hand twitching toward Martin then pulling back. Martin tries to focus on his breathing, wipes at his trickling eyes aggressively. When his vision clears, Jon’s taken a cautious step forward. Moving slowly, as though Martin is a wild animal that might be startled, he places a hand on Martin’s arm, and meets his eyes dead-on. The intensity of his gaze is not something Martin has ever experienced, and he takes in a sharp breath.

‘Alright?’ Jon asks, painfully earnest and careful. His face is close enough that even through his tears Martin can see the crows’ feet round Jon’s eyes, the dying smattering of freckles barely distinguishable from his skin, the small scar above his lip. His hand on Martin’s arm is solid. Grounding.

‘Alright,’ Martin murmurs. His breath escapes him in a watery laugh, and he meets Jon’s dark, intense eyes. Jon smiles at him. There’s a dimple in his cheek that Martin’s never noticed before. It’s such a simple thing, but the rarity of Jon’s genuine smiles and the surprise of it bursts across Martin’s heart like a sunrise. Jon releases his arm after a careful squeeze, apparently assured, and politely turns around to pick up his tea and let Martin pull himself back together.

‘Alright,’ Martin whispers, the warmth of Jon’s eyes and the painful release of the knot in his chest coursing through his blood. He looks down at the faded sunflowers on his cooling cup of tea. Breathes in, out, once. Twice.

Alright.

**Author's Note:**

> content warnings:
> 
> -brief description of PTSD-related anxiety  
> -internalized aphobia  
> -implied homophobia  
> -implied that a character was pressured into having sex in the past
> 
> let me know if there's anything i missed! hope you enjoyed <3


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